“‘Facts,’ murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off animals, ‘how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly–in fact, I’m off my head–but I never could believe in that man–what’s his name, in those capital stories?–Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It’s only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up–only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars.'” — G.K. Chesterton, The Club of Queer Trades, 1905